Lebensmüde Life Tired
by zoelou77
Summary: Lebensmüde - German adjective Indicating a feeling of wanting to give up on life - literally "life tired". Takes place directly after ASIP. John struggles to deal with depression and PTSD. Sherlock has to overcome his awkwardness and his own past to help his friend. WARNING: Suicidal characters, Non-Con possible triggers. NOTE - Rating increased
1. Chapter 1

Lebensmüde – Life Tired

Set immediately after a SIP. John continues to struggle with PTSD.

Warning for suicidal thoughts, and PTSD flashbacks

Discalimer: Anything recognisable is not mine

Chapter 1

It was getting on for 1am by the time Sherlock & John returned to 221b. The flat was in a state from Lestrade's earlier "drugs bust", but neither man could face dealing with it now. Sherlock was too hyped up from the case, cursing his own idiocy at dropping his pill meaning he couldn't find out if he had been right or not. John was just plain exhausted from chasing across London with Sherlock on minimum food and rest.

"G'night, Sherlock" John murmured as he headed for the stairs to his upstairs room. Sherlock replied with a grunt that John interpreted as distracted reciprocation.

As John changed into his t-shirt and bottoms after brushing his teeth, he felt the familiar trepidation creeping up on him. What nightmares awaited him tonight? He hoped that the bone-deep exhaustion would allow him a peaceful, dreamless sleep, though he knew it was by no means a guarantee.

John awoke with a shout, sitting bolt upright in the double bed that came as part of his furnished room. Panting and sweat drenched, it took him a moment to get his bearings. As his heartbeat began to return to normal he eyed his alarm clock (not that he needed the alarm these days, unless he had an early appointment with Ella), it was past nine and the sun was filtering through the curtains. He hoped that his flatmate hadn't heard his nightmare – he was aware that he wasn't always quiet and that his own shout had awoken him. It wouldn't make any difference as no doubt Sherlock would deduce his nightmare and it's cause the second he laid eyes on him.

With no work to go to and no therapy scheduled that day, John gave into the feelings of hopelessness sitting deep within. He curled up on his side and sobbed quietly, wishing that the tears that eluded him would flow and give him some kind of release. Eventually, he drifted off into a restless sleep haunted by jumbled images of Afghani insurgents and killer cabbies.

Shortly before 9am Sherlock was pulled from his Mind Palace by a sound that he couldn't immediately place. He stood up, Listening intently. The sound came again. Sherlock frowned, it sounded like a whimper from the direction of John's room. As he stood listening the whimpers changed in pitch and intensity. 'A nightmare' he concluded, no doubt about his time in Afghanistan.

He doubted that John would appreciate his intervention. If he judged him correctly (which of course he did), he would be ashamed of what could be perceived as a weakness, a contrast to the strong soldier persona Sherlock had witnessed in their short time together.

After a few minutes he heard John shout, then it all went quiet. 'He's awake, then' Sherlock mused, 'he'll be down soon. I won't mention it unless he does.' This wasn't an entirely selfless notion, as anyone who knows Sherlock will attest to – he's not good with emotions, hence the self-labelling as a sociopath, albeit a high-functioning one.

Sherlock went back to puzzling over the previous night's happenings, so it was early afternoon before he registered that despite several requests (read: orders) he still had no cup of tea and his phone was still in his jacket pocket.

He looked around. John's coat and shoes were still where he had left them early this morning, the kitchen was empty with no new cups having been used and the disarray left by Anderson and co. hadn't been touched – John had not come downstairs after his earlier nightmare. Maybe he was catching up on sleep, maybe he was worried that Sherlock had heard him earlier.

He felt a tight edge of something unusual nagging at him – concern for the veteran. He concluded that he would go and check on him.

When Sherlock quietly cracked open the door, the sight that greeted him shocked him to the core. He froze where he stood and whispered John's name shakily.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John was dreaming.

_Already it was not a good day. After a particularly violent clash last night Major Williams had left with a scout party to search for injured men leaving Captain John Watson MD as the CO at the medical centre on the edge of the large town in Helmand. He was currently in charge of 4 officers with 4 army and 1 civilian patient._

_John had just finished washing the blood of a 20 year old soldier who had bled out from a bullet wound to the abdomen off his hands when he heard the guard calling him._

"_Captain Watson, sir. We've got a civilian girl asking for treatment" John sighed and made his way to the entrance of the small building. As CO it was up to him to grant or deny treatment to civilians, based on the risk to the unit._

_As he approached the girl, John had already begun his primary assessment. Painfully thin, dirt-streaked sallow complexion and a yellow tinge to the eyes – the girl was a street kid, around 11 years old, maybe older than she looked due to years of malnutrition._

_John's eyes stopped on the obvious reason for her visit. Her left ankle was badly swollen and hung at an awkward angle. She also had a deep laceration running the length of her calf muscle. Without treatment she may slowly bleed to death – which if he was honest would be the more pleasant of the outcomes for her if she went untreated. The alternatives were decidedly nasty. He didn't doubt that the ankle injury was compromising the blood flow to her foot, which would cause the limb to die and eventually gangrene would set in leading to blood poisoning. Then there was the gash on her leg, if she didn't bleed to death from it, it would certainly kill the street kid through infection, leading to septicaemia claiming her life._

_John knew he had no choice; he had to treat the girl, he wouldn't be able to cope with having her life on his conscience when he could so easily prevent it._

"_Take her in, Evans. Cubicle 3. I'll watch your post"_

"_Sir!" Evans gently picked up the child, taking care not to jar her ankle and disappeared swiftly inside._

_The first thing that alerted John's military trained senses that something was not quite right was a woman across the road who was watching him intently with what could only be described as a smug expression._

_As he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, he heard the cry of "Bomb" from within the medical centre. Knowing his best option would be to apprehend the woman watching him, John gave chase._

_That decision undoubtedly saved his life. John was thrown to the floor by the force of the explosion, but he had made it far enough from the building to avoid serious injury, just cuts and bruises from falling debris._

This time when John awoke, his face and pillow were wet with tears. No-one inside the building had survived, something that John had never come to terms with.

Evans, Smithy, Lt. Stone, JJ, Wooffer (surname Barker), Danny D, Jonesy and Stevens had died instantaneously along with two civilians and the child bomber.

John was shot in the shoulder later that same day and never really got to grieve his friends and colleagues. He'd always thought it was unfair that he'd cheated death twice in one day when it was essentially his fault that they were dead. He let a bomber into the medical centre.

As the debrief for the bombing had been scheduled for the next morning when it was unclear whether the doctor would survive himself, John's only involvement was his statement which was taken shortly after he awoke from the drug induced coma 3 days later.

John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed as his sobs gave way to wet hiccoughs. He hugged his arms around himself and began to rock gently, the tears still trickling down his face. He couldn't go on like this. The last few days with Sherlock had been a welcome reprieve from the all-consuming hopelessness, guilt and sense of uselessness that his life had been since he had been invalided home from the army. He knew that a reprieve is all it had been, though. Now back in the reality of everyday life, he realised more than ever what he had lost.

Coupled with the newly torn-open chasm of guilt from the dream, John knew that he couldn't do this anymore. With a steady hand he reached into the drawer of his bedside cabinet and retrieved his service weapon.

As he weighed the cold metal in his hands, he considered leaving a note. 'What for?' he concluded, Harry would be too drunk to care and besides her there was only Sherlock and he was sure that he could deduce PTSD induced depression without the help of a note.

John removed the safety and raised it to his temple, muttering an apology for the mess he would make. He had just closed his eyes and begun to move his finger to hover over the trigger when he heard a sharp intake of breath.

His eyes snapped open and he saw Sherlock standing dumbstruck in the doorway, the door half open. As he met his eyes, Sherlock whispered his name.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:

I have upped the rating on this due to rape being mentioned. There is no graphic description, but triggers a plenty. You have been warned …

Chapter 3

"John?" Sherlock slowly pushed door the rest of the way open, heart racing. He had been relieved when John had opened his eyes and registered his presence, but the gun was still pressed against the doctor's temple and the finger hovered over the trigger. "Do you want to talk about this?" He asked tentatively. He had never tried to talk down a suicide before – not really his area – he wasn't really sure where to start.

"No" came John's whispered reply.

"OK, do you _need_ to talk about this?" Sherlock persisted. Something shifted in John's gaze and he focussed on the detective at the change in tack. He hadn't expected him to understand the subtle yet important difference.

"I don't know" he sighed, still making no move to lower the gun.

"John, I'll be honest with you. I have no idea how to cope with this, or what to say to dissuade you from pulling that trigger, but I do know what hopelessness and depression feel like" He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He was unsure about disclosing something so personal, but felt that it could give him a chance a helping John. He stepped cautiously into the room. "The day I first met Lestrade, he found me after a deliberate heroin overdose." John's eyes went wide and the hand holding the gun finally dropped to his lap. "Give me the gun, John, and I'll tell you about it" Sherlock held out his hand, John shook his head. "Can I at least sit with you?" John sighed shakily and nodded. He could sense that Sherlock wasn't going to let this lie, so they may as well be comfortable physically.

"Do you want me to tell you about what happened to me?" Sherlock asked sitting on the bed facing his friend. "It won't be easy to hear and it won't be easy for me to tell. In fact, no-one apart from Lestrade knows exactly what led up to my overdose. Mycroft still thinks it was accidental.

"I haven't always been able to shut off my feelings. I mean, these days I barely feel any true emotions, that's why I call myself a sociopath. It's less of a personality disorder and more a shield. I refuse to let myself feel emotions, because they hurt and they make you weak, but it wasn't always that way.

"I have, however, always been a smartarse genius and somewhat socially awkward. It was late in high school before I realised that I could use my observation and deduction skills, not so much as a defence, but as retaliation. I could finally hurt them back and they learned to leave me alone.

"The students at Oxford were a different story. When I started throwing my deductions at them when they labelled me "Freak", they didn't back away. They got violent. Back then I relied on my wits alone and couldn't defend myself against them.

"I remember there being one student, closet gay – obvious. He dressed smartly, but not overly so, used product in his hair and although he joined in with the raucous cat-calling with his friends, he lacked the look of hunger that the others had when a pretty girl sauntered past.

"Despite their violent reactions, I found that I couldn't keep my deductions to myself, bar that one. I knew that the pack would turn on him and I had no desire to inflict on him the pain I was enduring onto anyone else. Besides there was plenty of other material to use.

"Anyway, one day I think I came to close to outing him for his comfort. During a nasty beating one morning Victor – that's his name – was pinning me with my arms behind my back. I commented that I was surprised that he was capable after such a strenuous session of self-loving. He lost it. He told the others to leave him to show me how capable he was" Sherlock swallowed thickly, "His meaning was obvious, to me at least. I can only assume that the others didn't get his real meaning." For the first time since beginning his story Sherlock looked away from John, his head down slightly, looking at his hands. "I'm sure you can guess the kind of punishment a violent closet gay gives"

"Jesus, no. God, Sherlock" John was so shocked by this revelation that he forgot his own misery for a moment.

Sherlock's breathing hitched as he continued. "He … he forced me to … take him in my mouth, said it was all the lubrication I was going to get.

"It was horrible, John. I've never felt pain like it. I honestly thought I was going to die, and I was looking forward to it" Tears tracked down Sherlock's face and he stared at a spot on the bed between him and John. "Three years, at least once a week in term-time. I started using – cocaine and heroin – to cope, to block the memories. After uni I came back to London, but in my head I couldn't get away from Victor, so I kept using.

"Eventually, around five and a half years ago Mycroft put me into rehab. Three times. It was hard. I'd do OK for a few weeks, coping on just methadone. Then I'd leave rehab and fall straight back into old habits.

"The third time, November 2005, I had been in rehab about a week when a new patient was admitted. I didn't recognise him, but he knew me – it was Victor. He was in for alcohol rehab. He didn't even wait to settle in, he was in my room that same night.

"I signed myself out the next morning and found my dealer. I remembered the first time and how #i thought #i was going to die. I decided it was time to do something about it.

"Lestrade had been trailing my dealer for a while; he was a DS back then. Instead of my dealer, he found me half dead with a needle sticking out of my arm.

"I awoke some hours later. Lestrade was sat next to my bed watching me. Mycroft was stood at the end of the bed. To say he was angry would be a massive understatement. He told me that he wanted nothing more to do with me until I was clean and stormed out.

"I couldn't believe it. I had been through the most traumatic six years of my life, been beaten, abused and raped. All I wanted was for my big brother just to hold me and ask me why, to tell me it was going to be ok, but all he saw was a worthless junkie."

"For the first time since Victor first touched me I cried, I really sobbed. I had forgotten Lestrade was there until he spoke. He asked me to tell him about it – pretty much like I did to you just now – and I did. It wasn't easy, I had to stop several times, but in the end it helped. It didn't make it go away, but just telling someone made it seem less menacing.

"Lestrade tried to get me to press charges, but I knew that I couldn't face it. I begged him not to tell Mycroft. He agreed on the condition that I got clean. It took me nearly six months and I relapsed more than once.

"The breakthrough came when I came across a file on a murder that Lestrade had taken with him from NSY. He stopped by my bedsit on the way home, as was his habit. When he went to relieve himself, I found myself looking through the file. By the time he can back, I had solved the case. Lestrade was sceptical at first, but as I explained my deductions he was stunned.

"He started bringing cold cases for me to look at. I found that with the rush that I got from solving these, I didn't need the drugs. I still had cravings – an addict always will – but I now felt that I could beat it." Sherlock looked up at John, his story finished. His face was etched with pain and distress.

"John?" Sherlock asked worriedly. He was aware that John's grip on the gun in his lap had not lessoned.

"Thank you for telling me all that, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled sadly, "Has it helped any?"

John nodded. "I'm ready to talk if you still want to hear it." He moved to sit against the headboard, knees tucked into his chest. He laid the gun on the bed next to his hip and wrapped his arms around his legs, steadying himself to tell Sherlock of his nightmare and that awful day in late 2009.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N:

Justtheone, ds9julian & vix82 – thank you for your lovely reviews. It means a lot. This is my first Sherlock fanfic and very personal.

Also thank you all my lovely followers!

Chapter 4

Sherlock listened with awed sympathy as John relayed what had happened with the girl in Helmand. He knew that it would not have been in John's nature to turn away a seemingly innocent child, especially not an injured one. His sense of fellow felling and his doctor's heart would have taken over so that he would not have suspected a street urchin as a bomber for a second.

"I lost four of my colleagues in the medical unit and six others under my care that day. Four of my close friends, because Sherlock, in the army you are ass close and as loyal as brothers, you have to be." John looked straight at Sherlock, raising his eyes for the first time since recounting his experiences. He needed to make sure he understood this. "It was my fault. If I had thought to search the girl first – hell, if I had even taken her inside myself at least Evans would be alive." He put his hand up when he saw Sherlock take a breath to talk. "No, Sherlock. I don't want platitudes of 'you couldn't have known' and 'it wasn't your fault'. It was, Sherlock. I had been trained for these situations. I was the commanding officer and I failed my men"

"Later that day, on our way back to base for debriefing, we came under attack. Three men were shot, but no-one else died. I was one of those three.

"It was touch and go as to whether I'd make it due to massive blood loss. The debrief went ahead without me. Three days later, I awoke from a medical coma and was almost immediately interviewed and my statement taken. I was still pretty out of it, but I think they were worried I might still die on them and they wouldn't have chance to get my statement at all. That was the last I heard of it. I never got chance to stand up for my mistake. I didn't even get the chance to grieve for my friends. By the time #i was well enough to care, they had long since been repatriated and the funerals held.

"The muscle damage to my shoulder together with the night traumas ensure my being invalided home."

"John, I know you don't want to hear it and you won't believe me, but it wasn't your fault."

"You're right. I don't believe you and I don't want to hear it. Now get out." John's voice was totally devoid of emotion and his hand dropped to rest on the gun once more.

Sherlock felt panic rising within him. "John, just hear me out, please. Then I promise to leave you be if that's still what you want" John nodded and Sherlock let out a shaky sigh. "John, is it my fault that Victor raped me?"

John stared, aghast. "No, what, no! How could you possibly think that?"

"I knew what he was, but I provoked him anyway."

"Sherlock stop. No, OK? He had no right. None!"

"I agree."

"Sorry?"

"I knew what he was capable of, but in the heat of the battle, I hit out with what happened to be at my disposal. You knew that every civilian was a potential insurgent. Yet in the moment you had to make a decision based on the information at hand. You couldn't let an innocent child die, so you acted in mercy. That girl and whoever rigged her as a human bomb had no right to do that – wilfully killing those trying to help the sick and injured. No John, your situation isn't so different to mine."

"Nobody died as a result of your actions."

"I nearly did." Sherlock whispered. Had Lestrade found me ten minutes later, he would have found a corpse. I also hurt Mycroft deeply. I'll never know what Mummy thought or even if she knew. Mycroft refuses to tell me.

"It damned near killed Lestrade not to go after Victor himself. Even after he agreed not to pressure me into pressing charges, he wanted to go after him. And I can only guess what Mycroft did and what threats he made to try to find out why Lestrade was so determined to help me, but he never betrayed my confidence. So no, no-one died, but it caused a lot of pain that would have been avoided if only I had kept my mouth shut."

John could see what Sherlock was trying to do and to some extent, he found himself agreeing. "I'm not as strong as you, Sherlock. I can't do this anymore. I want, no, I _need_ it to stop."

"Does your therapist know? – No, of course she doesn't. You could barely open up to me and you don't trust her. You've already killed a man to save me, so it is safe to assume that you do trust me.

"Can I make a suggestion? Be my partner, my personal crime scene doctor. I can't work with Anderson and I need a medical eye. I saw you over the last couple of days with me on the case. You thrived on it, you enjoyed it. It's what got me through the worst, I think it could work for you too. Will you try?"

John thought about what Sherlock was proposing. It did make sense. He had felt truly alive, invigorated, as he followed and assisted Sherlock. He had thought that it would be a one-time affair – occasional at best. Yet here was Sherlock offering to let him in on all his cases.

"They're not all as exciting as that last one John. I still work on cold cases and sometimes there's a dry spell. You're good with feelings and people - that is of use to me too."

So, this isn't just to keep me from pulling the trigger?"

"No, John. You would truly be of use to me." John nodded. "Good. I'm going downstairs now. Join me and in a few minutes, there'll be a cup of tea with your name on it."

With that Sherlock got up and laid a hand on John's shoulder before quietly leaving the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket as he made his way into the kitchen. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he fired off a text to Lestrade.

Need a case. Something dull will do. SH

Danger night? GL

You could say that. Will explain later. SH

I'll be with you in an hour. Can you wait that long? GL

Of course. SH

After fixing the tea to his and John's liking, Sherlock sat in his armchair, eyes glued to the door he expected John to appear through. He didn't have to wait long for his reward. John came into the room moments later and sat opposite him, picking up his tea as he did so.

Since he has left his room, Sherlock noted, John had washed his face and shaved. 'He's making an effort to face the day' he thought, 'That's progress.'

"OK?" he asked.

"No." came the honest reply.

Sherlock nodded. "I can work with honesty John, that's good."

John gave a tight smile. He appreciated what Sherlock had done for him this afternoon. He had known the man less than a week and he had shared something deeply personal and disturbing with him that not even his own family knew in an attempt to make him feel better. John had been more than a little surprised to find himself doing the same in return.

It had helped, even though it had been painful. It had helped to put the happenings and his feelings about it into words, forcing him to examine and order his feeling.

He would never have done that with Ella. He had been referred to her by the MOD and although she was an NHS counsellor, he couldn't shake the feeling that they could access his notes. He had been right after all – Mycroft had no trouble getting them!

His overall feeling hadn't changed and he still wanted nothing more than to put an end to it all, but he had promised Sherlock to try. After today he figured he owed him that much. 'Plus' he reasoned, 'if dead is forever, then delaying it for a while won't make any difference to the end result.'

They sat in a companionable silence for a while until John's stomach groaned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It was 6pm and it had been a little after midnight when they had gotten the Chinese. While that didn't bother him, as he was used to it, he knew John wasn't. Didn't they say that 'An army marches on its stomach' or something equally nonsensical?

"John, you should eat something"

"Not hungry"

"The noises coming from your stomach say otherwise."

"Really Sherlock. I couldn't face going out and we have nothing in."

"Lestrade's coming over with a case, he can pick up pizza – no arguments!"

John sighed, he really couldn't face either food or company, but he didn't have the strength to argue either, so he said nothing.

A/N:

Sorry it's a shorty guys, but more will come in the next day or so – promise.

Thanks for all your reviews – sorry guest, depression isn't solved easily with a joke or two. There will be a happy end, but we'll have to work for it!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

When the knock came at the door, Sherlock went down to greet Lestrade, rather than allowing Mrs Hudson to send the visitor up as normal.

"Christ Sherlock. You look like shit"

"Thanks." Sherlock replied sarcastically "Although it isn't me that I'm concerned about, it's John. I take it you bought a case?"

Lestrade was taken aback by Sherlock's confession of being concerned for John. Since he had gotten clean, he had watched Sherlock carefully construct walls around himself, removing his feelings and turning himself into what he believed to be a sociopath. "Yes. It's a double homicide, husband and wife. I'm sure it was the neighbour, but I have no evidence, just a gut feeling. So what's up with John?"

"PTSD. I can't tell you anymore than that. It's for him to tell or not" Sherlock led the way up to the flat.

Greg followed him nervously, unsure of what awaited him in the flat and acutely aware that he barely knew John. He did, however, know that it had to be bad for Sherlock to text him like he had done.

The last time he had gotten a text like that from Sherlock, he had found him sitting almost catatonic with a full syringe of heroin on the table in front of him. He would have left NSY immediately, but he had a meeting with the chief that he couldn't get out of and so he had done his best to keep it brief.

He'd just gotten to his car when he got the text to pick up pizza – this did nothing to put him at ease. He knew from his time on the drugs squad and personal experience with Sherlock, that one of the first withdrawal signs from opiates was an increased appetite. So when a man with Sherlock's history who barely ate ordered pizza on top of an SOS, he felt he had the right to panic.

"John, the Detective Inspector got you a meat feast – I assume that's ok."

John felt an unnerving combination of nausea and hunger as the scent of pizza wafted across the room to him. He resolved to at least try to eat – after all, the DI had gotten pizza for him at Sherlock's request.

As they sat down to tuck into the pizza, Sherlock started to question Lestrade about the case and John found himself getting distracted as he listened. Sherlock found the case rather predictably dull and within ten minutes of going over the crime scene photos and statements, he knew that it wasn't the neighbour and had identified the killer in his mind. Knowing that John needed to work the case, he kept his deductions to himself for now.

"What do you think, John? The good inspector suspects the neighbour, but has no evidence. Look at the case, the photos, and the statements. What does your doctor's eye tell you?"

John wiped his greasy fingers on his bottoms before accepting the file. He looked at the photos from the crime scene and of the suspect, read the pathology report and the statements, before going back to the photos. "It's not the neighbour."

Lestrade looked amazed, Sherlock just smirked. "Go on, explain your deductions."

"There is no way that the neighbour could have inflicted those wounds. Look at the angle which the woman was struck from, the killer was obviously taller than her, but the husband's wounds indicate that he was roughly the same height as him. The neighbour isn't tall enough to be your killer."

Sherlock spent the next hour pointing out information until both John and Lestrade understood who the killer was and what the motive was. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock exercise so much restraint and patience over what was obviously and easy case for him to solve.

Once the deductions were explained, Greg excused himself to organise the arrest of the woman's brother-in-law (Obvious really! She was pregnant by the brother-in-law, who was planning on asking her to leave his brother for her. She, however, had merely been using him as her husband was infertile and was also in on the scheme, When the brother-in-law discovered the scheme, he killed them both in a jealous rage.)

"That was amazing" John sighed, his eyes still shining from the rush of watching Sherlock work.

"Yes, but it was your initial statement of the neighbour being too short to be the murderer that got it rolling" Sherlock stated generously.

"Nah, you'd already solved it by then." John said, not fooled for a second.

"Made a difference coming from a doctor, though." Sherlock insisted. "It's a good feeling, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John agreed. "But what about when there are no cases? What then? How do you cope?"

Sherlock huffed. "I do experiments, look at cold cases. Sometimes, I just vegetate in a semi-depression until I get a case. Occasionally, when I get desperate, I text Lestrade. That's what I did tonight. I haven't done that in over a year. I scared him tonight, I could tell. The last time I did that, he found me with a hit of heroin laid out on the table, The only way I held out until he got here was to play mental chess against myself."

"Did you tell him about me?"

"Only that you were going through PTSD. Told him that anything else was yours to tell."

"I appreciate that. I'm sure he'd understand, but you're right. It's my story to tell, as is yours"

Sherlock nodded. With that statement, they had just agreed that the demons aired that day would stay within these four walls.

Or so they thought …

A/N

Cliff-hanger!

Thanks again to those following the story. I appreciate your support.

Reviews are love – "not to love, is not to live" – I'll leave it with you …


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Anthea knocked as she entered Mycroft's office. "Surveillance level 3 has revealed something of importance that you should look at, Mr Holmes. I have the transcript for you."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. It must be something very important for Anthea to come in person rather than text. Although Mycroft had a n aversion to texting himself, he preferred his minions to send their information via text and email. "Thank you." He responded, "I shall look over it immediately."

Anthea nodded and left quietly, taking a seat in the corridor outside the office, as she had seen the contents of the transcript and knew her boss would be calling her shortly with instructions. She also knew that Victor had been identified and was currently detained at Grosvenor House. Mycroft's team were awaiting instructions on what to do with him.

As Mycroft read the first page of the transcript, he realised that both he and John's incompetent therapist had missed something important. He had missed because in the thrill of the case and the stress of his "kidnapping" John, it hadn't been present.

Interesting as this was, he didn't class it as anything that would warrant the urgency in Anthea's appearance. The reason soon became apparent, however, on the second page.

Mycroft would never forget the night he had been informed of Sherlock's overdose. He had been furious. He knew that his brother was a junkie, he had personally been funding and overseeing his rehabilitation and had been informed of Sherlock's disappearance earlier that day. He had always assumed that it was yet another facet of his brother's defective personality. He hadn't for a moment considered that the overdose could have been deliberate.

Mycroft's shock soon gave way to anger, horror and grief as he read Sherlock's account of what happened to him at Victor's hand.

Before he even got to the event in the rehab clinic, Mycroft had resolved to find out exactly who Victor was and make him pay for what he had done to his little brother. By the time he had finished reading the transcript, Mycroft had come to three conclusions: 1) Victor had to die, but first he would suffer for what he had done; 2) He owed his brother an apology. He had failed him when he needed him – badly; 3) He owed Gregory Lestrade a debt that he could never hope to repay.

He took a moment to compose himself before striding over to the office door where he knew Anthea would be sitting in the corridor, glued to her phone no doubt, awaiting his instructions.

She looked up when she heard the door opening. "Sir, we have Victor Trevor in custody at Grosvenor House awaiting your instructions."

"Thank you Anthea. I have no desire to see him at this juncture. Please advise my men to begin with 3 hours sensory assault, to be followed immediately by 15 hours sensory deprivation. See that Mr. Trevor receives nothing to eat or drink in this period. I will require a car to 221b Baker Street immediately."

"The car is waiting Mr. Holmes." Anthea replied and returned her attention to her phone to relay his instructions to Grosvenor House.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N:

So, this was supposed to be John-centric, but Sherlock seems to be taking over at the moment – as he is often want to do. I promise we will resume John's story before the end!

Thanks for sticking with me.

Chapter 8

Sherlock was analyzing some samples in the kitchen when Mycroft strode into the flat. John looked up from his laptop, where he was attempting yet again to make a start on his blog.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, how are you _feeling _today?" The emphasis and disdain conveyed in the word "feeling" made John uneasy. He realised that Mycroft knew of his breakdown. His stomach lurched. There were only two ways that he could know that. Either Sherlock had told him – and from what he had seen thus far of the brothers' relationship, he dismissed that option immediately. That left the only other logical conclusion; Mycroft had the flat bugged, meaning that he also knew of Sherlock's confession. John set his jaw and stared coldly at Mycroft, refusing to answer him.

Sherlock came into the living room having heard Mycroft's question to John and understanding all it implied. "Get out, Mycroft." Sherlock snarled with barely controlled rage.

"Brother, I owe you an apology."

"Yes, you do. Now. Get. Out. Have your people drop the surveillance. I am not a child. I will locate and remove your _devices _myself" With that Sherlock turned his back on his brother.

"I have Victor in custody, Sherlock" Mycroft continued undeterred.

Sherlock paled to the point where John thought he was either going to faint or be sick. He stood up and went over to Mycroft standing directly in front of him. "Leave. Now, or so help me, British Government or not, I will lay you out right here." John's voice was low and calm, but Mycroft could see the deadly soldier beneath the surface.

He smirked. "Very well, Dr. Watson, but call me when you have decided what I should do with Mr. Trevor. I can assure you that left to me alone, it will not be pretty"

John watched Mycroft leave, glaring at his back until he was out of sight and he heard the door to the street opening and closing as he left. He went to Sherlock and laid a hand on his friend's arm. He was not surprised when he flinched away from the contact. "Sit down, Sherlock, before you fall down" Sherlock merely looked and John blinking before returning to his perch behind the microscope in the kitchen. He made no effort to resume his studies, just sat there staring. "Talk to me Sherlock. Are you OK?"

Sherlock considered ignoring him, but hearing the worry in John's voice prompted him to afford him the same courtesy of honesty that John had shown him the previous day. "No" he said softly. "I'm not OK and I don't want to talk."

John nodded understandingly. "I'm here if you change your mind."

Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard John, but was lost already inside his own head. For years he had hidden this from Mycroft. He had been ready to tell him all when he awoke from his overdose, but he never got the chance. He decided there and then that he would do everything in his power to prevent him finding out. He had to admit that he hadn't believed that Mycroft's surveillance would stretch to having his flat bugged. He had never had any cause to believe it was before. He would find and remove them, but first he needed to process this new information.

He knew that Mycroft was offering him a carte blanche to exercise his revenge on Victor and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. It was Mycroft's way of trying to make amends for not being there for him and the spiteful part of him wanted to throw it back in his face. Another part of him wanted Victor to suffer for what he had done, to make him feel that death would be a welcome relief and then deny him that relief.

Mostly though, Sherlock felt sick at the thought of facing his tormentor again. Even if he didn't see him face-to-face, this was forcing him to drag up the past again. He had hoped that once he had told John, he wouldn't have to dwell on it ever again. Only sheer desperation at John's state had induced him to talk of it at all. He hated Mycroft. How dare he put him in this position?

John watched as Sherlock sat still as a statue for nearly half an hour before inhaling deeply launching himself of the chair and stalking over to the window, where he took up his violin and began playing a fast, aggressive piece. It was unlike anything John had ever heard before and although he could not say that it was relaxing or soothing, he found himself enthralled by the beauty of it.

As the playing went on, the tone of the music gradually changed, as if reflecting that Sherlock himself was becoming calmer, his thoughts clearer. Eventually, the music stopped and john was sorry for its loss. That was until Sherlock turned and fixed him with his piercing gaze. "I'm ready to talk, John."

"I'll make tea"

John came back a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. Handing one to Sherlock he said "I should have hit him"

Sherlock smiled. "As amusing as that would've been, it would have done nothing to change the situation"

"It would've made me feel better." John grumbled. "So, are we going to talk about Victor? What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is already enjoying Mycroft's unique brand of hospitality." Sherlock grimaced. "The real quandary is whether or not I get involved. On the one hand, I really don't want to face him, but if I am to be the one to decide his 'punishment', I need to be man enough to at least observe."

"I can understand that, but is it really worth it? I can see already what this is doing to you."

Sherlock's voice cracked. "What if it were you John? What if you got this chance with those who mercilessly sent an injured child to kill your comrades? What would you do?"

John swallowed. "I'd like to be able to say that they wouldn't live to regret it." John sighed. "But honestly, I'd want them to go through the same torment I did, until, like me, they wished they were dead. Then I'd torment them some more before leaving them alone with a choice of weapons for their own suicide."

"I think that that is more like Mycroft's methods than my own. I don't want him dead, whether by his own hand or someone else's. The one thing I want to know is if I was the only one, or did he hurt anyone else?"

"Why? To torment yourself with the thought that you may have stopped him hurting someone else if only you had spoken up?"

"No." Sherlock whispered. "I think I was the only one, but I can't be sure and that is tearing me apart right now. If he confirms there was no-one else, I think it will make it easier."

"And if you weren't the only one?" John asked gently.

Sherlock's expression darkened. "Then Mycroft can do what he will with him."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

After spending over an hour with John combing the flat for Mycroft's bugs and removing all five of them, Sherlock sent a text to Mycroft.

I want to see Victor. SH

Absolutely not. MH

You said to let you know when I had decided what to do. That involves me speaking to him. SH

Dear God, I dread to think! Are you planning to deduce him to death?

Very well, a car will come for you in an hour. MH

"We have an hour, John" Sherlock suddenly looked uncertain. "That is if you want to come with me."

"I wouldn't let you go alone if you wanted to." John couldn't believe how close he felt to his flatmate already. In the space of a few days, he had gone from thinking him utterly, brilliantly insane to not being able to imagine life without him.

Sherlock gave John a small smile – more a quirk of the lips really – before disappearing into his room.

He emerged some time later dressed in his regular black suit and a black shirt. John noticed that he was filling a syringe with a yellow coloured liquid from a small vial. John wondered whether Sherlock intended shooting up before going to see Victor. It didn't make sense after he had fought so hard to get clean. Then again, he was about to face the person who had driven him to drugs in the first place.

"Please John, as if I would!" Sherlock chastised.

"What?"

"It's written all over your face. You think I'm going to shoot up. Firstly, I wouldn't give Mycroft or Victor the satisfaction of pushing me back down that road. Secondly, do you really think that I would do so in front of a strong moralled doctor like you when I could easily do it on my room?"

"I guess not" John admitted. "So, what's in the syringe?"

"Sodium Pentothal."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Truth serum?" He said disbelievingly. "That's not even legal in the UK!"

"I don't think that that will concern Mycroft. But of course, there is no such thing as a true truth serum. All this does is induce a relaxed state in which the subjects inhibitions are lowered making them more inclined to tell the truth. I believe it is in fact similar to being intoxicated with the added benefit of being lucid."

"I know what it does, Sherlock. I was a medical soldier, remember? I have had to administer this stuff to prisoners before interrogation. You do know that he'll be useless if you give him too much? It will act as an anaesthetic."

"I have calculated that factor into the dose. I am an expert chemist, after all John. Let's go down, Mycroft's car will be here shortly.

Mycroft greeted Sherlock in the foyer of Grosvenor House.

"What have you done to him so far?" Sherlock enquired coldly of his brother.

"Mr. Trevor has thus far undergone three hours sensory assault and when I received your message he was four hours into sensory deprivation."

John blanched, but said nothing. He had treated soldiers following this kind of torture and it wasn't pretty. Granted, injuries were usually minor and self-inflicted, but the psychological damage could be immense.

To his credit, Sherlock did not too pleased about this either. "I want you to give him food and drink and then John will assess him medically."

"This has already been done and was the reason behind me delaying an hour before allowing you to come."

"I would still like John's medical opinion before I see him." Sherlock insisted.

"As you wish, brother."

John was gone barely ten minutes. When he returned he gave his assessment to Sherlock in a clinical manner. "Physically he's OK. He's been roughed up a bit, he has some bruising and minor abrasions. He's also a bit dehydrated. Psychologically, he is scared. He has no idea why he is here, though he is aware that this is a government facility. He appears to not to be suffering greatly from the effects of Mycroft's treatment so far. He is restrained at the ankles and wrists to a chair. He shows signs of having struggled against these restraints."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "Give him water and untie him." Seeing Mycroft about to object, he continued, "he is in a high security MI6 cell, for God's sake! He's hardly going to escape and he is no physical match for your men. Once this is done, John and I shall go in together."

"And what is your plan?"

"Sodium Pentothal"

Mycroft stared incredulously. "You seriously just want to talk to him?"

"For now, yes."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N:

Thanks for sticking with me thus far. This is the last part of Sherlock's story and we will be returning to John's feelings in the next chapter.

I have tried to get the right mix of Sherlock's emotions and his sociopathic idealisms, so I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 10

Sherlock took a deep, calming breath before opening the door separating him from Victor and stepping through. His heart was racing and he felt sick, but he was determined not to show it. John followed him into the interrogation room.

Upon seeing Sherlock Victor's eyes widened with understanding and fear. Then he narrowed his gaze and spoke venomously. "Still no match for me in a fair fight, then Sherlock? Have to get heavies in to do your dirty work?"

"Oh, I could easily take you in a fair fight now, Victor. Your current predicament was not instigated by me, I assure you. I'm not here to inflict any harm, I simply want to talk." Sherlock said with considerably more calmness than he felt.

"Then what's with the doctor?" Victor asked, gesturing to John.

As pre-arranged, John stepped forward letting Victor see the syringe. "This, Mr. Trevor, is Sodium Pentothal, otherwise known as truth serum. I'm here to administer it and monitor you. I trust that I won't need to have you re-restrained." Victor paled, but held out his arm for John to inject him. "Thank you." John said swabbing an area with an alcohol wipe before injecting the serum.

Sherlock had been using this time to read and observe Victor. "Congratulations on your current sobriety, Victor." Seeing his questioning look, Sherlock elaborated. "If you were currently alcohol dependant, I would expect to see signs of withdrawal such as a tremor or shaking – after all you have been here in excess of 24 hours. Your complexion, though currently pale from the stress of the situation is relatively healthy, not showing the redness associated with alcohol abuse. How long have you been sober?"

"A little over two years, but I could seriously use a drink now." Victor looked a little disturbed by what had come out of his mouth. Why would he admit needing a drink to Sherlock?

Seeing his look, Sherlock smiled, the 'truth serum' was working. He sat down opposite Victor, the table between them. Leaning forward, Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin, deliberately portraying a superior attitude in his body language.

"So, Victor. Why? All those years ago at university, why rape me?"

"It was a way to hurt you. The beatings didn't stop you rattling off your _observations._ I knew it was only a matter of time before you outed me. That day you came too close for comfort, I needed to stop you."

"How did you know I wouldn't go to the police?"

"You're not the only one who sees things. You were so socially awkward that you would never have been able to admit something so personal. Also, you never did anything about the beatings."

Sherlock nodded. That was indeed the truth and a decent deduction. "Surely once would have been enough. Why? Why did you carry on? Even back at the clinic in 2005?" His emotions were starting to break through the carefully constructed walls and he hated it, but he refused to let them win. He hoped that the psychological influence of the phrase 'truth serum' coupled with the lowered inhibitions induced by the chemical would work.

Victor rewarded Sherlock by speaking freely. "At first it was purely power play, a way to shut you up. After the first time though, and it was my first time, I craved it again, not just the power, but the sex. I knew I could take it from you and you wouldn't tell the world I was gay because of your own shame. It didn't hurt that you're quite stunning to look at either. I'll admit I had quite the infatuation with you back then, Sherlock, still do in fact." The look in Victor's eyes at that admission became predatory and feral as he raked his eyes over Sherlock, making his skin crawl.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, unable to sit still in his presence any longer. John gave him a look enquiring if he was OK. Sherlock replied with a tight smile. "I can assure you that there is no chance of a repeat performance. I am no longer the weak junkie you could overpower. If you tried it now, you would be dead before you could even touch me." Sherlock was shaking with rage now. He turned back to face Victor. "How many more like me were there?"

Victor looked away. "There were none like you."

Storming over, Sherlock slammed his fist against the table and leaned menacingly over Victor. "How many other poor sods did you rape? Answer me!" He bellowed.

"I'm not sure. They were just random men, they meant nothing!" Victor almost pleaded with Sherlock.

"You sound like you're defending yourself against a charge of infidelity. We're talking about men you _raped_, lives you have probably destroyed. You _disgust_ me." Suddenly, something clicked in Sherlock's mind. "You _are_ defending yourself against a charge of infidelity – your partner!" Sherlock took a closer look at him. "In fact _she_ has no idea that you prefer men.

"When I came here, I wished you no harm, I just wanted answers for my own peace of mind. Now, now I want you to hurt." Sherlock raised his voice again and leant right into Victor's face. "I tried to fucking kill myself when I got out of that clinic! That's what you did to me. How many others of your victims tried? How many succeeded?" Sherlock turned and stalked to the door, unable to be in the same room as him any longer. John followed him out.

When the door was closed and locked, Sherlock fell against it, breathing harshly. John went to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't, just don't John. I can't handle it right now." John nodded and dropped his hand. "I need some air. Just give me some time, OK?" With that Sherlock headed for the door leading to the exit.

Sherlock lent against the cold stone of the building and tried to get his breathing and raging emotions under control. It wasn't long before he noticed that he was no longer alone.

"Go away, Mycroft."

Mycroft pulled out a cigarette. "I thought you might need this." Sherlock took it wordlessly and lit it with shaking hands. Mycroft watched his brother drag deeply on the cigarette before asking, "Have you thought what you want to happen now?"

"Find his girlfriend. She will need to be tested for STD's, but be discreet. I don't want to upset her any more than is necessary. Victor will break it off with her and if the need arises, we will take care of her." Mycroft nodded. "As for _him_, I want to be sure that he cannot hurt anyone else. Prison is not an option, he would just be a sexual predator in there too."

"I agree. You could have him eunuchated. After what I have learned of Mr Trevor today, I would take great pleasure in that."

Sherlock considered Mycroft's suggestion. He hated to admit it, but it was the perfect solution. Having Victor castrated would serve many purposes. It would be painful physically and emotionally, scar him psychologically and prevent him from being able to rape anyone ever again.

"I think that may be an acceptable course of action. I will tell him of the decision myself, then I am sure that John will take pleasure in explaining the procedure and it's implications."

"Ah yes, Dr. Watson. What are we to do with him, Sherlock? I quite like him, and I think that he is good for you. We can't risk him going and killing himself, now can we?"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

It was nearly a week later when Sherlock had cause to worry seriously again about John. After everything that had happened with Victor, John had seemed OK. He took care of Sherlock, making sure that he would be alright and was recovering from the stress of it all.

Two days ago, John had become more subdued. There were no cases to distract him and Sherlock was keeping occupied with some analysis involving the human eyes Donovan had previously discovered during the 'drugs bust'.

Sherlock looked at the clock, it was past midday and John had yet to leave his room. With a sense of foreboding, he made his way up to John's room, remembering what happened a little over a week ago. Since then, Sherlock had made sure that John's gun was kept in the desk drawer in the living room.

John was lying on the bed with his back to the door when Sherlock entered the room. John's medical kit was open at the side of the bed. Two items had been dropped carelessly onto the floor beside it. The first was an empty syringe; the second was a bloody scalpel. Panicking, Sherlock ran to the bed and turned John onto his back.

The bedclothes and John's arms were covered in blood. Cursing, Sherlock grabbed John's phone from the bedside unit, dialling 999 while frantically searching for a pulse. It was weak and thready, but there. Sherlock gave the operator the details as quickly as he could, jamming the phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed John's arms holding them up and applying pressure to as much of the wounds as he could. He informed the operator that he suspected that John had also injected an anti-coagulant, before letting the phone drop so that he could concentrate on John.

The minutes before the ambulance arrived felt like hours, but eventually he heard Mrs Hudson letting them in and following them upstairs fussing over what was wrong. "Upstairs, Mrs Hudson, John's room." He shouted. The paramedics took over from Sherlock carefully and efficiently, examining the syringe on the floor and confirming that it was indeed an anti-coagulant.

Sherlock stood back as he watched the paramedics work, giving John oxygen, tightly binding his wounds and trying to find a vein for IV access.

Eventually, they found a viable vein and set up the cannula, injecting vitamin k directly into John's blood stream to encourage clotting, then hooking him up to a fast flowing saline drip. They then began the arduous task of transporting the prone man down to street level to the waiting ambulance. Sherlock followed in a doze and climbed into the back of the ambulance with John. As he was obviously in shock, the paramedics did not stop him, but continued hooking John up to blood pressure and heart monitors.

"His blood pressure is through the floor, 80 and falling" the paramedic at John's head said. "Respiratory effort is minimal. Let's get him intubated before we leave." The second paramedic finished locking the doors and turned to provide his colleague with the necessary equipment. Once John was attached to the ventilator, the ambulance pulled away at speed, sirens blaring.

They had been on the road for around five minutes when an alarm went off. "He's in VF! What's our ETA?"

"Three minutes" came the reply.

"Starting CPR. Can you radio ahead and inform the ED, please?"

Sherlock stared helplessly as the paramedic began pounding John's chest to keep the remaining blood pumping through his veins.

When they arrived at the hospital, the paramedics rushed John through the ED quickly firing off information to the waiting doctors.

"This is John Watson, 39 years old, attempted suicide, deep lacerations to both radial arteries. 2.5mg Clexane administered pre-injury. Blood pressure 70 systolic, GCS 7, arrested on route approximately four minutes ago. 5mg vitamin k administered at site."

John disappeared into the resuscitation room and Sherlock was led away by a nurse to give John's details. As he was following dutifully, a man went dashing into resuss, commanding that the doctors stop. Sherlock turned to listen.

"Dr. Watson's notes have been fast tracked. Under no circumstances is he to receive blood. His notes that he had an acute haemolytic reaction in Afghanistan."

"Thanks, David." Came the reply. "Ok, keep pushing those fluids guys, preparing to shock" The door swung closed, cutting off the sounds of the doctors fighting to bring John back. Sherlock allowed himself to be led away again.

A/N:

So, back to John as promised. I put a fair bit of research into the medical side of this chapter, so let me explain some things that may not be common knowledge.

- Clexane is a common drug used to prevent thrombosis in patients with limited mobility and would thin the blood significantly.

- GCS (Glasgow Coma Scale) measures consciousness and responsiveness. 15 is fully awake and aware, below 8 is considered life threatening.

- Vitamin K is oten used to encourage blood clotting and blood production.

- An acute heamolytic reaction is where the body's immune system rejects the foreign blood transfused and affects ca. 1% of the population. As a Jehovah's Witness it was important that I find a realistic solution to be able to avoid giving John blood and going against my Bible conscience (Acts 15:28).

Thank you for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N:

I've had some comments about John attempting suicide again so soon, so I felt I should explain for any readers who are fortunate enough not to have had experience with mental health issues.

John is currently in crisis. A mental health crisis is not something that goes away over night. Though certain activities _may_ distract you for a while, you ultimately come back to the feelings causing the crisis.

Very few people can come out of this on their own and it is a very dangerous time. If you need any advice on these issues the MIND website is a great starting place.

Chapter 12

Sherlock sat in the small side room in ITU watching the monitors as John lay unconscious and pale in the bed next to him. The doctors had managed to revive John and had successfully removed the ventilator about an hour ago. As he sat there, Sherlock was trying to formulate some kind of plan to help John. Obviously, the distraction of cases alone was not helping to pull John out of crisis.

He was brought out of his reverie when the door opened and Greg Lestrade entered the room carrying a large manila envelope. "How is he?"

"We won't know for sure until he wakes up. The doctors say that he almost didn't make it and they can't be sure about the possibility of brain damage until he's awake. He really did a good job on himself, but I wouldn't expect anything less from a doctor of John's calibre."

"Mycroft asked me to give you this." Greg passed him the envelope. "He said that he was intending on bringing it to the flat in the next few days anyway. It's John's military file. That's how he knew to fast-track the medical notes."

"The doctors only just got the message in time. They were about to start a blood transfusion – they tell me that in his weakened state it would've killed him and that it nearly did in Afghanistan after he was shot."

"Shit! I guess John definitely knew what he was doing. When you said he was suffering with PTSD, I never guessed it was this bad."

"Have you read this?"

"God no! You told me that it was up to John to tell me – I respect that."

"When I texted you last week, I had found him in his room with his gun to his head about to pull the trigger."

"Jesus Christ! Is he getting any help? I mean, the army, they look after their own, don't they?"

"He has a therapist, but I know he doesn't talk to her, he doesn't trust her, possibly because he was referred by the MOD. I don't know how to help him with this. I thought that the Work might help him like it helped me, but it's not enough."

Mycroft seems to think that there is something in that file that will help."

"I hope so, Lestrade. He's my friend. I don't want to lose him when I've only just found him."

Greg gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze. "Call me if you need me." Sherlock nodded and Greg left with a promise to stop by the next day.

Sherlock opened the file Mycroft had sent. He felt like he was invading John's privacy, reading his military file, while he was powerless to stop him, but he stamped that feeling down, knowing that if Mycroft thought it would be helpful that it was imperative that he digest the information contained within the file

/

The first thing John became aware of as he began to surface from the darkness was the pain in his chest. It felt like he had been hit repeatedly and that someone was still sitting on him. His first instinct was to allow himself to sink back into the darkness away from the pain, which he knew would only increase the closer he got to full consciousness. Then, he heard voices and curiosity sparked within him, overriding the pain.

Logically, he knew he was in hospital and that the voices would most likely be discussing his medical state. He found that he wanted to listen.

"Dr. Watson's blood pressure is steadily improving and his HB levels had increased to 5 at the last blood test. We would expect him to come around soon."

"What if he doesn't?" John identified the speaker as Sherlock and felt a stab of guilt at the pain and worry in his friend's voice. He must've found him. John was aware that it couldn't have been a pretty sight.

The doctor continued, "Well, there's certainly no need to worry just yet. If he doesn't regain consciousness in the next 24 hours, we will look at running tests to determine the levels of brain activity, but I am sure that that won't be necessary."

John let himself drift away from the conversation. He didn't want to wake up. Waking up meant facing life again and answering questions he didn't want to hear. The choice was taken from him, however, as a painful cough wracked his battered chest.

"John?" Sherlock enquired, instinctively grasping his friend's hand. John tried to reply, but only managed a groan, his eyes fluttering. "It's OK, John." Sherlock reassured him.

"'M sorry." John croaked, his throat was dry and raw from being intubated. He groaned again.

The doctor had been checking his vital signs on the monitors, but now turned to John himself. "Don't try to speak just yet, Dr. Watson, you're still very weak. I'm just going to shine a light in your eyes to check your responses." John winced as the bright light invaded his vision making his head pound. "OK, that all seems normal. Do you think you could manage some sips of water?" John nodded, a drink sounded wonderful. He closed his eyes as the cool water soothed his raw throat. The doctor took his leave, indicating that he would be back later in the day.

John sighed as he relaxed back into the uncomfortable hospital bed. He noticed that his wrists were bandaged and he was hooked up to IV saline.

"'M sorry, Sh'lock." He croaked again.

"John, we'll have a serious talk about all of this when you're feeling stronger. For now all you need to know is that I'm not angry and I'm going to help you, OK?"

John nodded. He was exhausted and in pain, so was happy to let sleep claim him again.

Sherlock watched his friend drift off to sleep. He now knew why Mycroft had sent him John's military file. The report on the bombing of the clinic was certainly much more detailed and conclusive than John believed, but more importantly, it officially absolved him of any blame. He just wasn't sure how to use this information to help John, or even if it would.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Sherlock used the time that John was asleep to grab a coffee and make some calls. First on his list was Mrs Hudson. Sherlock hadn't spoken to her since the previous day when the ambulance came and then it had only been a quick synapses of what had happened. He was so distressed himself that he had hardly spared a thought for the elderly landlady's feelings on seeing John bloody and lifeless. Now he knew that John was going to be OK, physically at least, he was worried for the woman who had pretty much adopted him as her own son.

After assuring her that John was safe, he apologised for not being in touch sooner.

"It's alright Sherlock, dear. I saw you yesterday, you only had a mind for John. I'm glad that he'll be OK, but now I'm worried about you. Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. I had breakfast yesterday. I'll get something later."

"I'll bring you some sandwiches and I baked those scones you like – you know how I like to bake when I'm upset."

"I don't think John is really up to visitors, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh Sherlock! I'm coming to see you as much as him. If he's not up to seeing me, at least I can fuss over you."

Sherlock smiled, he really was very fond of his landlady and she was the only one ever likely to be allowed to fuss over him without him objecting too much. "Thank you Mrs Hudson. I'll see you later."

The next phone call wasn't going to be as pleasant. He needed to speak to Mycroft. As much as he hated it, he needed to thank him for his intervention in John's treatment, without which John would certainly have died. There was also the matter of the file he had sent across with Lestrade.

Sherlock kept the call as short as possible and was surprised when Mycroft offered to find and pay for a competent therapist. After agreeing that John would never accept the offer, they decided that the therapist would come under the guise of being NHS.

Lastly, Sherlock called Lestrade to update him that John had woken up and was lucid, but still very weak and had almost immediately gone back to sleep. Lestrade promised to come by to see them both the next morning. Sherlock wrapped up the call quickly. He had been away from John for over half an hour and was itching to get back.

John was still fast asleep when Sherlock got back to his room. He was relieved to see him sleeping in a more natural position, lying half on his side, facing the visitor's chair Sherlock had earlier vacated. Looking at the sleeping man, he tried to evaluate his feelings towards him and his own reactions to them.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever having felt this close to another human being before. He knew at a very young age that he was different. His extraordinary intellect mixed with his social awkwardness made him the target of bullies at school. He was disliked by the teachers for his forthright disdain for the simplicity of what was taught. He learnt quickly to retreat into himself, hoping not to be noticed. Pretty soon only the bullies took any notice of him, everyone else avoiding him completely. By the age of seven he had acquired the nickname which would follow him all his life "Freak". Often he went home nursing bruised ribs and shins, the occasional split lip and black eye when things got particularly vicious.

If he had come from a normal family, his parents would have taken it up with the school, his big brother would have stuck up for him. But if there was thing that the Holmes family could never be accused of, it was being normal. Father was often away with work and was distant and formal when he was around.

Mummy was as delicate as the flower she was named for. There was no doubt that Violet Holmes loved her boys, but Sherlock's prickly nature made him difficult to get close to. He would often make her cry unintentionally and later not understand what he had done wrong. Eventually, she pulled back from her youngest son, letting him be to avoid being hurt by him and ending up resenting him. This caused no little tension between him and Mycroft, who idolised his mother.

The result was that Sherlock had not really had anyone close to him in his life before John. He was very fond of Mrs Hudson, but she was a mother figure. He saw Lestrade as a colleague. His feelings for John were something entirely new. He felt protective of him and at the same time felt safe around him. He looked forward to seeing him and felt comfortable being himself around him. He had confided his deepest darkest secrets to him and John treated him no different for it. Yes, for the first time in his thirty-four years on Earth, Sherlock Holmes had a friend and he would do everything in his power to keep him – that included helping him to defeat this cancer of the psyche, depression.

Sherlock spent a couple of hours ordering his thoughts and feelings for John, assigning him his own room in his mind palace before he heard his friend stirring again. He immediately diverted his attention, reaching for the glass of water and putting the straw to his mouth for him to drink.

John drank deeply, emptying the glass twice before indicating to Sherlock that he had had enough. "Thanks." He said, his voice beginning to sound more normal. "So, how bad was it?"

"It's too soon, John, you need to focus on getting stronger."

"No, I need to know. I'm guessing from how my chest and ribs feel that I went into cardiac arrest. How long?"

Sherlock looked away. "12 minutes." He whispered.

"Jesus! How many cracked ribs?"

"Four. John, I though they weren't going to get you back!" His voice cracked. "Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you tell me it was that bad again?"

John swallowed. "I don't know. I'm just so tired of fighting. I can't do it anymore, Sherlock, I just can't!" John hung his head as the tears began to trickle down his face.

"Look at me John." Reluctantly, John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's intense gaze. Sherlock took his hands gently in his own. "You will get through this. I meant what I said, I will help you. I will do whatever it takes, whatever you need me to. But you need to talk to me, be honest. When you get to the point where you feel you can't go on, tell me. Can you promise me that? I might not be able to make it go away, but hopefully I can help you to bear it. So promise me that, OL?"

"I promise I'll try."

Sherlock nodded. "You know John, I must admit that if it weren't you involved, I would've been most impressed with the thoroughness and effectiveness of your method. It was really clever. The combination of pre—injecting an anti-coagulant and your intolerance to foreign blood. It's a wonder you survived."

"Well, it wasn't my intention. I knew that even with the Clexane you might still find me in time. I also knew though that because of the anti-coagulant I would have lost enough blood by the time I got to hospital for the doctors to want to transfuse. How did they know not to? How did they get my notes so quickly?"

"Mycroft"

"I might have known! John grimaced. "Am I to assume that not content with spying on us, he's also digging around in my past?"

"I think that was always a safe assumption, John." Sherlock wondered whether now was the time to mention the file, but he was spared the decision for a while by the arrival of the ward doctor accompanied by a woman, who Sherlock concluded was the therapist appointed by Mycroft.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N:

Hi All, Thanks for sticking with me thus far. Your reviews have been amazing!

I am now entering the therapy part of the story. This is based mostly on personal experience and so may differ from experiences that others of you may have had (though I sincerely hope you never have the need to experience it).

Chapter 14

John was scheduled for his initial psychiatric assessment at 2pm. Physically, he felt much improved from the day before. He was on a diet to improve his blood count – lots of berries and green vegetables, supplemented with beetroot juice and iron injections. His blood pressure had stabilized at a more normal level and the drip had been removed. This morning John had been moved to a general ward, but again was favoured with a side ward.

John had been impressed to learn that in such a short time his HB levels had climbed to 8.4, still a way off the healthy 12 expected, but greatly improved. He was hopeful that he would be able to leave the hospital after his assessment.

After his frank discussion with Sherlock yesterday, John had retreated back inside himself, only speaking to answer direct questions. Sherlock was concerned. So far all visitors except Sherlock himself had been turned away, and he barely even spoke to him.

Hannah was a friendly, efficient woman in her early 40's. Sherlock took an instant liking to her no-nonsense approach that was firm yet kind. He could tell that she was the type of therapist that John would be likely to respond and open up to if he would make the effort to work with her.

"Hello John." She greeted him. "Is Sherlock staying with us for the assessment? If you want him to, he can."

"I can stay if you need me to, John, but it might be easier without me here." Sherlock responded. "Shall I leave you with Hannah?" John nodded. Sherlock got up to leave. "I'm going to get a coffee, then I will be right outside if you need me, OK?"

John watched him leave. He wasn't sure whether he wanted him to stay or not, but he was willing to try if Sherlock felt it was for the best. He took a sip of his squash, grateful that Mrs Hudson had brought it in. He wasn't a fan of plain water and he was under orders to up his fluid intake to help his body to replace the lost blood. Mrs H. in her usual motherly way had provided what he needed – his favourite Robinsons Orange Barley Water.

"So John." Began Hannah, "As I explained yesterday, today I just want to find out where you are emotionally. I've taken a look at your HAD score and it's 21, which is very high, but that's to be expected at the moment.

"I know you probably don't feel like talking much, but I will avoid asking questions that can be answered 'yes' or 'no'. I need you to be honest with me. Shout and scream, cry and sob if you need to. My job is to help you, not judge you. I have had ex-military patients before, so don't feel the need to hold back or sugar coat anything. I've been a therapist for fifteen years, I'm pretty unshockable. Do you want to start with telling me what happened two days ago?"

John sat silently for a few minutes, staring intently at his nails. Hannah waited patiently for him to order his thoughts into words. "I dreamt of Afghanistan again. It's always the same, a memory of the day I could have prevented the death of ten people, the day that I was shot, the day I stopped being Captain John Watson MD."

"Tell about that day, John." Hannah encouraged.

John told her about the medical centre, the injured girl, the bomb that killed his men and patients. He told her how he was the sole survivor, that the remaining ones of his unit who had been out on a mercy mission at the time of the bombing came under attack with him en router back to base. He told her of being shot and nearly dying. Missing the debrief. He explained that he hadn't been called to account for his mistake, how he hadn't been able to grieve his friends as they deserved and his medical discharge from the army.

"It's like everything I was and I knew was taken away in the space of just one day. I don't know how to move on. I don't want to move on."

"Some of what you're experiencing, John, is survivor's guilt. You feel that it's unfair for you to live when the men under your command, whom you were responsible for, died."

It _is_ unfair. Three of those men were married, two of those had children. Evans was only 21. Look at me! I'm 39, no wife, no children, only my sister, who is too drunk most of the time to care what happens to anyone as long as she gets her next drink. Why do I get to live?"

"I can't answer that, John. I can understand why you feel that way. But imagine if someone else, a friend, were in your situation. What would you tell them?"

John thought about that. He knew that Hannah was expecting him to say that he would re-assure the friend that it wasn't his fault and that he shouldn't feel guilty. John wanted to give a truthful answer and to do this, he needed to consider his soldier persona and well as his personal feelings and attitude. He was glad that Hannah gave him the time he needed to think without trying to prompt him to answer. That was something Ella was guilty of and it made him less inclined to open up to her, giving her the answers he knew she wanted to hear.

Eventually, John admitted that he wouldn't be as hard on a friend as he was on himself. "I think that you tend to be more forgiving of a friend's faults than your own."

"Don't you think that you deserve the same respect as your friends? How long did you serve in hostile territories?"

"I did a full 9 months and I was 8 months into my second tour of Afghanistan. Before that, I served 6 months in Islamabad and was deployed in peace keeping missions in East Africa."

"Am I correct in saying that you had been faced with injured civilians and children requesting treatment before?"

"Yes, it was a fairly regular occurrence."

"Did you treat them, or turn them away?"

John knew what Hannah was trying to do. She was using the logic of past experience to show that he hadn't done anything differently to previous occasions. "We had to assess each on its own merit. Sometimes there were ones who didn't really need our treatment and would be fine without it. On occasion, these were trying to gain access to the medical centre to steal or attack. Others were genuinely in need of treatment, those we took in. In a warzone there aren't many public amenities and although we were soldiers, we had all taken the Hippocratic Oath."

"OK, I think that's enough on that for today. I believe that cognitive behavioural therapy would be beneficial for you. Now, in view of the severity of you attempt and your HAD score, a recommendation for residential treatment has been made."

"No." John knew that this was a possibility, but he would do everything in his power to prevent it.

"John, two days ago you very nearly successfully took your own life. Your HAD test indicates that you still have active thoughts in that direction. As a doctor, you know that the hospital is obligated not to let you go home while you are a danger to yourself."

"Are you saying that if I don't agree, you will have me sectioned?"

"I hope it won't come to that, John."

John was stunned. As he though that he had been thorough enough in his attempt, he had given no thought to the consequences should he survive. "Can you ask Sherlock to come back in, please?"

Hannah stood and went to the door where she found Sherlock pacing outside. He didn't wait for an invitation, but walked straight in and went to John's side. He took in John's demeanour and knew what the issue was. He didn't have to wait for John to confirm this. "She wants to have me sectioned, Sherlock." John confided like a frightened child.

"Yes, I thought that might happen."

"I did a rotation on a psyche ward as a student, it was horrid. I can't … please don't let this happen."

"You would get much better care than I can give you. Look what happened when you were with me."

"No, please?" John was close to tears now and Sherlock seeing this caved.

"Let's talk about this, OK?" John nodded. "Hannah, is it really necessary to admit John to the psychiatric ward?"

"I think s, yes. I don't feel that he is safe to be out of care at the moment."

"Could I take responsibility for him?"

"It's a possibility, but this happened while you were both at home. What can you do to make sure that it can't happen again?"

"I obviously need to keep a closer eye on him. I assure you that I will make sure that John does not attempt to take his own life again while he is in my care. The thought of being admitted is causing him extreme stress and anxiety, surely that is not conducive to improving his mental health. I will personally make sure that he attends every therapy session you deem necessary."

"OK, we can trial it. But Sherlock, if you notice dangerous behaviour or you can't cope, you need to let me know immediately."

"I will, thank you." Sherlock looked at John, who was visibly relieved.

"Thank you Hannah, Sherlock. When can I go home?"

A/N:

HAD scoring is a system for rating the severity of depression. The questions aim to determine the subject's average mood over the last 7-14 days. 15+ is considered a score worthy of concern. John's score indicates constant low mood and often active thoughts of suicide and suicidal ideation.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Before John was allowed to leave the hospital, he was given a follow up appointment to have his stitches removed and a prescription for anti-depressants. Hannah had scheduled his next session for tomorrow, Friday.

As John made4 his way up the stairs to the flat in Baker Street he was attacked by a dizzy spell and stopped, leaning heavily on the hand rail. He waved away Sherlock's concern. "Just a bit light headed. Nothing to worry about, I should have expected it." It was true, the exertion of climbing the stairs while his body was still recovering from the blood loss was bound to cause a drop in blood pressure and make him light headed.

Added to that though was the anxiety John was feeling about going back into his room. His sheets and mattress would be ruined, likely his pillows and duvet too. That was a job he was not looking forward to, in fact, he thought he might sleep on the sofa for now and put off the ordeal of shopping for a new mattress, duvet and pillows for another day.

"Don't worry, John. Your room has been taken care of." John looked at him in surprise. "You're worried about going back into your bedroom, afraid of the state it will be in. It's to be expected, it's a vivid reminder of what happened. I gave Mrs Hudson my debit card and asked her to take care of it. You have a freshly made bed, complete with a new orthopaedic mattress – in deference to your shoulder – new duvet, pillows and bed linen."

"Wow, Sherlock. Thank you. You must let me pay for it."

"Not at all. Your army pension isn't much, John, I have money. I was happy to do it."

"Um, thanks. I might go and have a lie down, then. I'm a bit knackered."

"Really John, you've only walked up the stairs!"

John just shook his head and headed up to his room. The first thing he noticed was hat his medical bag was missing. He frowned and looked around the room. Anything that he might use as a weapon against himself had been removed. He made a mental note to talk to Sherlock about it later, but right now he just wanted to rest.

/

Once John had gone upstairs, Sherlock went into his own room. On the bed lay the things that Mrs Hudson had removed from John's room: his medical bag, a barber's razor, his Swiss army knife and various painkillers. He needed to formulate a plan. He hadn't expected John to be allowed home today, he had fully expected that he would be admitted to the psyche ward, so he wasn't really prepared. He didn't know what he could do to ensure that he couldn't try again.

He went back into the living room and hacked into John's laptop (his was in the kitchen). He typed 'suicide watch' into Google and scanned the results for something of use. As expected, the first link was to Wikipedia. Clicking on it, Sherlock perused the contents, opening the section on 'forms'. It appeared that there were two main points for suicide watch. Firstly, he should remove any items with which the patient might harm themselves. He thought that he pretty much had that covered thanks to Mrs Hudson's efforts. The second point was regular check. The website recommended either constant one-to-one monitoring or checks at intervals of no greater than 15 minutes. He looked at his watch; John had been alone for just over half an hour, so he decided he needed to go and check on him.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to John's room and knocked gently. He remembered the last time he had come to check on John and felt a surge of adrenaline course through him. He knew that it was illogical, but there it was. He braced himself and opened the door. John was curled on his side, fast asleep, facing the door with his hand curled loosely by his face. Sherlock smiled, he looked so peaceful. For the first time in more than 48 hours, he let himself relax. He sank down on to the wing-backed chair by the window, content just to watch his friend sleep.

When John awoke it was already dark. He stretched, wincing when his stitches protested. Moaning quietly, he sat up rubbing his eyes. He stopped as his eyes caught sight of a dark slender figure draped gracefully over the chair by the window, his sharp features highlighted by the pale glow from the street lights. John smiled; his flatmate was spark out and snoring softly. He went to the wardrobe and pulled a fleece blanket from the shelf. He placed it gently over the sleeping man before going to fix himself a drink. He took his cup of tea back up to his room and climbed into bed with it, knowing that Sherlock would panic if he awoke and found him missing.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

When Hannah asked how John was getting on being back home, she was both amused and relieved to hear of Sherlock's version of suicide watch. Much to his annoyance, John had thus far only been allowed to spend any time alone when in the bathroom – even this was hard fought for! If it had been up to Sherlock, John would have had him as an audience every time he went to toilet and for his shower this morning. John had told Sherlock that he would not be allowed into the bathroom while he was peeing and showering. Sherlock had protested until he informed him that even patients in a psychiatric unit were afforded this privacy. Sherlock had then proceeded to remove his own razor and the nail scissors from the bathroom and informed John that he would be sitting outside.

"He's definitely taking it seriously." John said. "I know I should be grateful, but to be honest, it's suffocating. Sherlock is such an intense person."

"I certainly got that impression. How are your thoughts at moment?"

"Not so good."

"The suicidal thoughts?"

"Still strong."

"In what way? Are we talking ideation, or making plans?"

"Carrying out any plan with Sherlock on suicide watch would take someone much more intelligent than me. He's waiting for me downstairs in the café as we speak."

Hannah smiled, but persisted. "That's not really answering my question, John. What if Sherlock weren't around?"

"Yeah, there'd be plans."

"What would those plans be?"

John thought for a moment. "I have several options. There's the gun, my service weapon. Sherlock makes sure that I'm not left alone with it since he walked in on me about to blow my brains out."

"When was that?"

"Around a fortnight ago."

Hannah made a note, she knew of it, of course, Mycroft had briefed her, but this was the first time John had mentioned it. "And the other ways?"

"I've considered insulin overdose, barbiturates, as a doctor it shouldn't be difficult to get hold of the drugs required."

"But with Sherlock watching you as he is now?"

"No, he instructed our landlady to confiscate anything with which I could deliberately harm myself."

"OK, I'm happy with that so far. I want to look into your thought processed and self-image. You said to me last time that you felt you had lost your identity as a result of being discharged from the army. I want to know how you see yourself now. I would like you to list for me your positive and negative points as you see them"

John sighed as he thought about that. He used to feel good about himself. He was doing an important job, helping those serving their country and those in dire need. He had self=confidence professionally and personally earning him the moniker "Three Continents Watson". What could he say about himself now?

"Um, I'm loyal, I guess. I try to be kind, but I have a mean streak. I like my eyes, but I'm on the short side. I don't really know what else to say."

OK, well that's a start. Let's have a look at these and see where that takes us."

/

An hour later, John joined Sherlock in the hospital café. Sherlock looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow in query. "So, how did it go?"

"Hard. I'm shattered, let's go home."

They rode home in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. On reaching 221 Baker Street, Mrs Hudson greeted them with a tray of scones with jam and cream and a pot of fresh coffee.

"I thought you boys might need this, you know how awful hospital coffee can be. It's just this once, mind! I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." John and Sherlock exchanged glances and chuckled, glad for this slice of normality and the running joke.

"Of course not, Mrs Hudson. Thank you." Sherlock smiled at the elderly lady and relieved her of the tray.

They went up to the flat and sat enjoying Mrs Hudson's excellent baking and coffee. After his third scone, John poured himself a fresh coffee and looked at Sherlock, who was currently trying to fit a whole scone in his mouth while reading his book on criminal psychology.

"Sherlock, can we talk?"

The man in question looked up from his book and attempted to articulate an affirmative reply around his mouthful of cake. The result was a shower of crumbs and an unintelligible grunt. Sherlock swallowed what he could and washed the remainder down with a gulp of coffee. He then tried again, this time managing to speak clearly. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Firstly, I want to apologize. I can imagine that it was pretty horrible to find me like that." Sherlock grimaced at the memory. John looked down guiltily. "Well, I'm sorry. Also, I'm sorry for Mycroft finding out about Victor. If it weren't for me and you wanting to help me, that wouldn't have happened."

"Don't apologize for that. It turned out for the best. At least now I know that no-one else will suffer at his hand."

"Sherlock, we also need to talk about this suicide watch you have me on. While I Appreciate the gesture, I've only been home one day and I'm starting to feel smothered already."

"It's what you need though, John. I've done research on it. I promised Hannah that you would be safe with me and I intend to keep that promise."

I respect that Sherlock, I really do and I'm grateful for you keeping me out of the psyche unit. It's just, well, I've got a lot to think about, to work through and if I'm going to take it seriously I need some time and space just to be in my own head. I can't do that with you watching me."

"But the advice is not to leave you alone for longer than 15 minutes."

"If it makes you feel any better, you have my permission to go through everything in my room and see if Mrs Hudson missed anything. Set up my room as a 'safe zone'. I just need to have some private space. Also Hannah has asked me to keep a diary about my thoughts. It is _private_ Sherlock. No secretly reading it while I'm asleep. Will you, can you respect that?"

Sherlock considered making light of the request with a flippant reply, but something in John's eyes made him reconsider. "Yes John, of course. So, I get to go through your stuff then?"

John rolled his eyes. "I suppose, but just this once!"


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Two weeks passed without further incident and Sherlock began to see John's general mood lift. There had been two cases from Lestrade, which Sherlock had solved pretty quickly, especially now he didn't have to put up with trying to work with Anderson.

John was seeing Hannah twice a week and she was happy with his progress. John was an intelligent man and responding well to CBT. In their most recent session, he had brought up the subject of the blog that Ella had encouraged him to write.

"John, I know you don't rate Ella's methods but I think that the blog is a really good idea. It will show you how you are spending your days and adjusting to your new life."

"I've tried, Hannah, several times, but I just don't know what to write about."

"Have you considered writing about the cases you work on with Sherlock?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why not? It will document that you are doing something positive and useful."

"I'm not sure Sherlock would like it. Plus, he does all the work, I just point out the medical evidence and I'm sure he could do that on his own anyway."

"I spoke to Sherlock on that issue, because I knew it bothered you. He says that your medical input is genuinely useful. He may be a scientist, but he's not a doctor. Try it! Sherlock's your friend, I'm sure he won't mind, he might even be flattered."

That conversation was the reason that John now sat at the desk in the living room with his laptop open. He wasn't sure where to start, but if the blog was to be about him helping Sherlock solve crimes, the most logical place would be to introduce the theoretic reader to Sherlock and himself. So he began with short synapses of his army service and the circumstances that led to him meeting Sherlock, before describing the man himself.

By the time he had finished describing the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes; John found he was enjoying the writing. He saved his work, not yet posting as he wanted to include the case with the killer cabbie in the first post. Sighing, he stretched out his muscles which were cramping after being curled over the keyboard as he pecked away with his two-finger search system of typing.

"You know it would be much quicker if you learned to type properly, John." Sherlock had left his experiment in the kitchen when he heard John sigh.

"My typing is adequate, thank you. It gets the job done."

"As you prefer, John, I was just saying it would be quicker."

/

In the last week, since his mood had visibly improved and begun to stabilise, Sherlock had allowed John more freedom. He went grocery shopping with having to suffer Sherlock accompanying him, though he did still insist on checking the shopping for items deemed dangerous.

It came as something of a shock for Sherlock when John returned home from his latest session with Hannah puffy-eyed and silent. He went straight to his room, ignoring Sherlock completely and foregoing his usual cup of tea on return from therapy.

Sherlock was immediately on edge. Should he go and check on his friend, or did he need time alone? He decided that he would be happier if he went to check on John and was told to go away than if he sat and worried, maybe missing something important.

He knocked on John's door. "John, can I come in?" There was a slight pause before John replied in the affirmative. He was sitting against the headboard with fresh tear tracks on his cheeks. "I know that we agreed that this is your private space, John, but I was worried."

"That's OK, Sherlock."

"So, do you want to talk?"

"We did some trauma processing work today. It was really tough, like reliving it all. Hannah says it will take a few days to settle, so I'm not seeing her again until next week."

"Do you want me to stay, or do you need to be alone?"

"I just need a little time. I'll come down later; I might have a sleep now, though."

Sherlock nodded and left John's room, closing the door softly behind him.

John gave a shuddering sigh, he had almost been caught. He reached under the duvet and retrieved the Stanley knife he had bought on the way home. He had no intention of attempting suicide again, but he remembered from his time on the psyche ward as a student that some used self-harming, such as cutting, to relieve the emotional pain. John had decided after today's session with Hannah to try it for himself. He felt as if the pain of reliving the trauma of his last day of active service would eat him alive if he didn't give it an outlet.

Locking the blade at it's lowest setting, the blade just jutting out from the casing, to ensure that he didn't cut too deep by mistake, John dragged the blade across his stomach, his abdominal muscles contracting in reaction to the sting. He let out a hiss at the sensation and watched with satisfaction and fascination as blood beaded along the line of the cut.

He repeated the process twice more before dabbing away the blood and hiding the blade under the mattress. He then curled up to take the nap that he had told Sherlock he wanted to take.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

John was taking comfort from his knife on a daily basis and Sherlock either hadn't noticed or didn't want to mention it.

The cutting had been going on for just over a week before Sherlock challenged him about it.

Something had been off since John's session with Hannah the previous week. At first, Sherlock had thought it was just down to the trauma therapy, but he soon began to notice the odd wince when John was stretching. This puzzled him for a while. John's injuries on his arms had healed well; leaving dark pink scars that would fade over time and shouldn't still be causing any discomfort. So, why was John in pain and why was he trying to hide it from Sherlock?

The solution came to Sherlock when he was researching PTSD online. It was brought out that some sufferers used self-harm to help them to cope with the psychological trauma. Sherlock was confused by this. Why would anyone do that? Then the idea came to him that this is exactly what John was doing. It fitted so well.

He came to two conclusions; firstly, he would look into the subject more – he refused to go in 'unarmed' as it were. Secondly, he needed to catch John in the act. He really couldn't see John admitting it if asked.

The next day when John went upstairs 'to think', Sherlock waited a few minutes before following him. He climbed the stairs to John's room silently, avoiding the 7th stair that creaked. He opened the door without knocking. John sat in boxers and t-shirt dragging the blade across the top of his thigh. His eyes were closed as he hissed at the pleasurable pain. Shock and anger registered when he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock watching him from the doorway.

John stood and walked to the door, pushing Sherlock out, he slammed the door on him. Undeterred, Sherlock knocked.

"John, let me in, please."

"Go away!"

"No John. I'll talk to you through the door if I have to, but it would be better if we could talk face to face."

"And say what exactly, Sherlock? That I'm a freak who takes a knife to their own body everyday and how good it feels?"

Sherlock flinched at the bitterness and despair in his friend's voice. "I know you're hurting, John. You're not a freak. Self-harm is quite a common coping technique."

John laughed humourlessly and opened the door. He stood in front of Sherlock clad now only in his boxers. There were around thirty shallow lacerations in various stages of healing on his torso and at least ten more across his thighs, including two still oozing blood. "Do you call this coping, Sherlock? Because I sure as hell don't!"

Sherlock felt a little sick seeing the physical evidence of his friend's emotions anguish. "Yes, John, that is coping. A little less than a month ago, you would have used that blade to try and end your life and a little over a month ago, you very nearly succeeded. I grant you that it is not pleasant and it is not ideal, but yes John, you are coping."

John wondered back over to the bed and sank down on to it, head in hands.

"It just hurts so much. This," John gestured to the cuts, "helps. It sounds crazy, but it does."

Sherlock sat next to John and gently took his hand. "There is plenty of research that supports your conclusion. I'm not going to demand that you stop and I'm not going to ask you to give me the knife that you managed to smuggle past me."

"You're not?"

"No, I don't think it would help. I will ask you to do two things for me, though. Firstly, talk to Hannah about this." John inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide. "She'll understand and help, John. Secondly, be careful. I don't want to find that you've cut too deeply by accident!" John looked into Sherlock's blue-green eyes and saw only genuine concern, not the repulsion he had expected. He nodded. "I'll leave you now John, you might want to clean those before the blood dries too much."

John watched Sherlock leave. He had been sure that he would insist he stop and hand over his blade. He looked down at the cuts littering his body and resolved to try to stop. He wouldn't throw his blade away, but he would speak to Hannah.

/

Sherlock went straight to the bathroom and retched. He had never thought of himself as a squeamish person – couldn't be really in his chosen work – but the longer he knew John, the more he was finding that his long-standing ideas about himself were not holding in his presence. The thought that his friend was so desperate that he had taken to carving himself up to relieve his pain made Sherlock feel sick and frustrated. He honestly didn't know what more he could do.

He rinsed his mouth and splashed some water on his face before going back into the living room. He found that only an intense game of mental chess was enough to distract him from what John might be doing with that knife in the room above him.

Much to Sherlock's relief, John came down an hour later. He was freshly showered and in his pyjamas. His eyes were puffy from crying, but Sherlock didn't mention this. John went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea for himself and his flatmate.

"I called Hannah." John said on returning to the living room and handing Sherlock his mug. "We talked for a while and I'm seeing her tomorrow." He locked eyes with Sherlock and told him determinedly, "I will beat this."

"Yes, John, you will. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

"Would you play for me? It's soothing."

Ever the exhibitionist, Sherlock didn't need to be asked twice. He took up his violin and began to play. John smiled and closed his eyes as a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Ravel's Bolero sounded through 221B Baker Street.

/

The weeks went by and John continued to improve. He spent time on his CBT exercises and worked hard in his sessions with Hannah. Eventually, he was discharged after completing the hardest task of them all – a letter of forgiveness to himself. He would rather go back to Afghanistan than have to do that again. The knowledge that Hannah was going to read it had just made it harder. At least he knew that Sherlock wouldn't be reading it.

As he progressed, Sherlock asked less and less after his emotional state and neglected taking his flatmate's feelings into account in his daily activities, slipping into his old, somewhat caustic ways. He offended John more times than the army doctor cared to recall, so John took it upon himself to try and correct his behaviour and attitude. It was comfortable – it shouldn't have been, they were polar opposites – but it was.

Sherlock saw it as proof that John was well along the road to recovery when he came back from Tesco's one morning complaining about the chip-and-pin machine and the general state of his finances, concluding he needed to get a job. Sherlock smiled and closed his laptop.

"John, I need to go to the bank."

A/N:

Again thanks to all of you who have followed me thus far. We are nearly there! Only an epilogue to come.


	19. Epilogue

A/N:

And so we come to the end of the journey! My first completed Sherlock fic!

Thanks to all who have reviewed, but especially to vix82 for her input and support.

Hope you all enjoy!

Epilogue

Two days ago Captain John Watson MD, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, had attended the funeral of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital 12 days ago. It seems that when faced with losing his identity and credibility as a consulting detective, Sherlock had reacted in a similar way to how John had just two years ago. He had succeeded where John had failed.

Now that John was alone, sitting in his armchair in the living room of 221b, he let his mask fall. The mask he had been wearing since before the funeral was one of controlled grief. People thought he was coping – that's what he wanted them to think.

That was, however, far from the truth. The truth was that when John had returned home after watching his friend jump to his death he had taken a clean scalpel and made a long slash across his chest. Now, twelve days on, John's body, arms and thighs were covered in cuts, mainly in sets; some spelling 'SHERLOCK' but mainly just his initials 'SH'.

Today, not even the sting of the blade and the flow of blood helped to ease the pain. That was why John now sat with his service weapon to his head, tears streaming down his face.

"I'm coming, Sherlock." He whispered as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of the loud bang of a gun shot all that came was the soft click of the hammer resetting itself. John tried again, nothing. He threw that gun across the room in frustration and sobbed.

Later, when he was all cried out, he went to retrieve the gun, intent on checking and reloading it. He removed the clip, it was empty. On either side of the case there was a sticker. One said "I'm sorry" and the other simply "Don't".

"You bastard!" John growled. This proved that Sherlock's suicide wasn't a snap desperate decision, he had planned it. (Actually, Sherlock had been watching his friend's reaction to his 'death' and had become increasingly worried. He had waited until he was sure John was asleep one night the previous week and snuck into the flat. He had emptied the clip and left his message, taking the spare ammo with him when he left.

John raked his hand through his hair. He thought back to how Mycroft had looked at Sherlock's funeral – the man, normally unflappable and aloof, had been broken. Now that Harry was sober (6 months!), he refused to put his sister through that. He put the gun down and picked up his phone dialling the number for Hannah. He knew he needed help if he was going to get through this.

Five minutes later, John hung up, stunned. Hannah Wells was dead; killed in a house fire last year. Determined now to not let the work that the dead woman had done be in vain, he swallowed his pride and made an appointment to see Ella as soon as possible.


End file.
